


Boo, You Whore

by xxMOONLITsky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:09:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxMOONLITsky/pseuds/xxMOONLITsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My spin on the “Mycroft gets a text and responds with a three-word phone call” prompt from sherlockbbc_fic on Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boo, You Whore

**Author's Note:**

> My first Mystrade fic (or Sherlock fic in general). I'm rather proud of it. Mycroft and Lestrade (and all other associated characters) belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC; original credit for the creation of the characters goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The mobile phone buzzed quietly in the pocket of the elder Holmes’ immaculately-tailored three-piece suit, momentarily distracting his attention from the various world leaders who were currently discussing the price of gasoline in his office. Glancing back and forth between Vladimir Putin and the American Presidential Hopeful – he highly doubted she would ever see the inside of the Oval Office; Putin was not pleased that she could see his country from her home – it was clear that turning his attention to his phone would go unnoticed.

Surreptitiously, Mycroft eased the sleek mobile from his right trouser pocket and pressed the silver button, revealing the newly received text message.

 _Hate to be the bearer of bad news,  
but I'm gonna have to cancel our  
dinner plans tonight. Triple homicide down at  
the docks - it's all hands on deck. (Docks and decks,  
ha! You'll think it's wishy-washy, though. :) )  
Same time tomorrow?_

 _GL_

Frowning, he moved to reply when his phone buzzed again; another message received.

 _Miss you already, My._

 _Greg_

Mycroft smiled to himself, glancing up to see the female Hopeful step rather angrily into Putin’s personal space.  The smile turned to a smirk before he softly excused himself from the room; it wasn’t like they would notice his absence anyway.  Walking a couple of paces down the hall, Mycroft pressed the button that would speedily connect his mobile to Gregory’s.  It barely rang twice before the line was picked up.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Boo, you whore.”

Spluttering could be heard on the other end before Lestrade had gathered his wits enough to respond in actual English.

“ _What?_ ”

“You heard me,” Mycroft replied, his grin evident in his tone.

The sound of yelling in the background – Sherlock, from the high and mighty tone – slowly faded as Lestrade presumably walked a few paces away from his crime scene.

“I am  _not_  a whore, Mycroft.”  The sentence was uttered in a harsh whisper.

“Oh, but you are, Gregory,” Mycroft replied swiftly, still grinning. “You cancelled our date.”

“And that makes me a whore  _how_? Y’know, I don’t even want to know,” Lestrade changed tactics, the exhaustion and frustration clear in his voice.  “It’s not like I _wanted_  to be here all night overseeing a triple homicide, but  _no_ , that makes me – ”

Lestrade’s rant was interrupted by Mycroft dissolving into laughter.  It only lasted a matter of seconds – after all, there were world leaders in the next room and maniacal cackling was extremely undignified – but it was enough to silence the other man.  Taking a deep breath, still smiling into the phone, Mycroft spoke.

“Gregory, darling, it was a  _joke_.”

A few seconds of silence before –

“Well, it wasn’t funny.”

Mycroft smiled.

“Pouting does not become you, Gregory.”

“I am  _not pouting!_ ”

"Ten quid says you just stomped your foot.”

“…I hate you.”

Mycroft grinned.

“No, you don’t,” he said, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg shot back; it was clear  _he_  was grinning now too. “Love you.”

“As I love you, Gregory.”

Greg Lestrade hung up his mobile, pocketing it with a grin as he walked back towards the crime scene.  He would have loved nothing more than to chat away the evening with his husband, but after all,  _somebody_  had to keep Sherlock from killing Anderson.

 


End file.
